A Squirrel's Attention
by theBrillianceofNight
Summary: No real plot. Just an experiment, I guess. Naruto's been unable to pay attention. Can he find a solution? Rating for cursing.


Fuck this. I'm just going to come right out and say it. May as well face it. I'm not normal. There's something wrong with me.

I can't sit still, my mind won't ever stop, it just keeps racing and racing, never once pausing, and on top of that, possibly because of that, I believe I may have become an insomniac.

And while dark circles are unattractive, I am somewhat wishing that they _would_ appear because I just wish someone would fucking pay attention, notice how often I just _lose_ about five minutes of my life because my brain won't cooperate, it insists on thinking of something else, or they'll realize how spacey I am, and how it's not normal, or somebody would realize the difference between my real smiles and fake ones, the difference between my authentic good moods and carefully constructed ones, the difference between my actual expressions and my masks, see the truth in my 'sarcastic' phrases and the lies in my insisted 'truth's.

"Hey, are you alright?"

"No, I'm terrible."

"Glad to see your sense of humor is up to par."

"Is this decision okay with you?"

"Yes, but of course!"

"Then I won't pester you about it any longer."

I guess it's my fault, all too often. I'll sit in Science class, be desperately trying to pay attention to the procedures for the project that will make or break us, but my attention wanders elsewhere, and then—-BAM!—-five minutes—-five whole _fucking_ minutes—-have just escaped my notice and the classroom is empty except for myself, the teacher, and my lifeline.

"You catch all of that?"

Of course, she already knows my answer by my vacant stare, but I answer anyway.

"No."

Then she'll laugh, not a derisive one, but an amused one, and fill me in on what I missed.

Missed.

I hate that word.

And then there's gym class. I'll be listening intently to the coach's directions on what we'll be doing for the duration of the period, but somewhere between the words, 'now' and 'understand,' my thought process will take a trip somewhere, leaving my body behind as an empty shell, and I'll only return to my body when half of the class takes off. I'll follow along before it occurs to me that only the girls are running, and I'm male. I'll slink back to the main group with my figurative tail between my legs while the whole class is laughing at me, and then he—-usually my scaffolding—-will nudge me with his elbow, grinning and telling me how great of a ploy that was, and how all of the girls were looking at me and smiling. I'll plaster on a great big toothy grin, bigger than his, and laugh, telling him how it was all a plan, it was thought out before it happened.

On the inside, I'm telling myself how they weren't smiles but sneers, not laughter out of enjoyment but laughter out of glee at my humiliation.

But I guess I'm just great at acting, because he believes it all.

Acting.

Believe.

_God,_ I hate those words.

And then, after school, at Theater rehearsal, for a play I convinced myself to try out for, seeing as how I act so well every moment of the school day, the director remarks that I'm not convincing enough, that I'm not playing the role of a frustrated, depressed student satisfactorily. She says that it's supposed to be ironic, as the character's name is the description of extreme happiness, and because his best friend has the term meaning misery as a name, but is the very definition of the word ecstatic, it is supposed to have a very large amount of irony.

And ironic it is.

I'm seriously not even sure how I'm staying on track long enough to get all of this out. At any other time, I'd be in La-la-land by now, swimming in the sea of apple juice with my friends the Swedish Fish, and the cotton candy clouds overhead would be nice and puffy and fluffy and—

Goddammit, there it is! I finally went off on a tangent. About frickin' time.

And when I space off, it's not even about the normal stuff a teenage guy is supposed to think about—I'm supposed to be hormonal or something, but do I have one single feeling like that towards any girls? No. Of course not. I'm too abnormal for even that. And don't you _dare_ ask me about boys. I'm not gay. No. Never. I'm not a homophobe. I'm just not gay. And how the hell did I even get on this topic?

But again, I wish someone would just pay attention, or notice that _something_ is off. She, my lifeline, can't even get me to stay on track these days. She's in every one of my core classes, thank god, but it doesn't help when _she_ can't even keep my mind on track. There's this other guy though, and he's in all of my classes. ALL of them. No joke. We have the same schedule. It's scary. I think he might be stalking me or something. What do you do to get rid of a stalker? Actually, how do you tell if you actually have a real stalker? Are there any signs of a sta—-

GAH! _Again._ But see, even though she's helping me, to her, it's normal. She must think I have ADD or something, but she deals through it all. None of it seems off to her. She's too accepting, through no fault of her own, but she's always thinking, "Oh, that's not off, it's just the way he is."

But this other guy, I think _he_ might be noticing. God, I hope he notices. I think he went to the same elementary school as me. He probably was pissed beyond belief back then. Me, always having some loud outburst or something. He would be annoyed, with his 'higher-than-thou' attitude. You think he might have some type of superiority complex? Maybe he's like that other kid, the one with the long hair. You know, what is up with their hair? This guy from elementary school has like a duck-ass for hair. You think the complex comes with it? Anyway—-

There it is again. That word. 'Anyway'. Notice how it always means I have to get back _on_ track. Dammit.

But as I was saying, it seems like he's noticed something is up. Am I thankful? You have no idea.

And who knows? Maybe, if, for once, I _try_ to focus on something off topic, I'll actually 'space off' and listen to what I'm supposed to be listening to. Like, for example, trying to figure out how the hell he gets his hair to stay like that without gel. And yes, I've checked. I sit behind him in History. Don't ask. It's the attention span thing again.

But I've got hope for the future.

Wish me luck!


End file.
